


A Warm Winter's Tale

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bedtime Stories, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, More Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28191849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crowley hates the cold. But being stuck as a nanny means he can't flee south. Aziraphale's attempts at cheering him up are 'helped' along by Warlock's enthusiasm.Written for the server 2020 gift exchange.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24
Collections: All Gifts Left In A Server For More Than A Fortnight, Anonymous





	A Warm Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CatofApocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatofApocalypse/gifts).



Aziraphale sometimes thought he ought to write a book about the habits of demons. 

There were plenty of those in existence already, of course. But rather like books about witches being mostly written by men, most books about demons seemed to have been written by persons who knew nothing practical about demons.

The best way to summon a demon, as Aziraphale could tell anyone, was with a good bottle of Chardonnay. And the best way to banish a demon was to tell one that the bottle was empty and, no, he didn’t have another tucked away somewhere.

Demons, in his particular experience, were also fond of new technology, loud music, television, and badly choreographed dances.

They were also migratory.

At least, that was the impression Aziraphale had gathered after observing Crowley for centuries.

Usually sometime around October, Crowley would begin to gripe about the chill and how very disgusting London looked in the winter. And a few weeks later, he’d suddenly announce an assignment in the Caribbean, or a sudden desire to visit the Middle East, or he’d simple disappear.

Sometime around April, he’d return tanned, contented, and boasting about some outlandish temptation which they both knew he couldn’t possibly have performed.

But form had to be kept up so Aziraphale always nodded along as if he believed it.

The years Crowley couldn’t find an excuse to leave London, or the years his superiors sent him further north rather than conveniently south usually resulted in a deeply grumpy demon for several months afterwards.

Also one who was inclined to blast the heat in his flat as high as it would go, turn into a snake, vanish to the top of his tallest potted plant, and refuse to come down for weeks at a time.

Aziraphale always thought he’d enjoy walks in the snow-covered parks with Crowley. Perhaps listening to carolers or drinking cocoa together in front of an open fire. But suggestions of that nature were always met with a sneer and usually a retreating snake tail into a smaller, warmer corner.

Except this year Crowley couldn’t go south. Or hibernate. Or disappear into a corner.

This year he was employed as a nanny.

And nannys, especially ones responsible for the upbringing of the antichrist, could not take a six month leave of absence.

Crowley seemed to be doing the next closest thing, though.

“Nanny won’t come out of her room!” Warlock announced to Aziraphale by way of greeting when he came down one afternoon to greet the gardener and see if he was permitted to build a snowman where the flower garden had been.

“Nanny gets very cold,” Aziraphale explained tactfully. “Her blood, you see.”

Warlock did not see. What he saw was that he had no nanny to watch him, and without a nanny to dog his movements, he was not permitted to leave the estate.

Aziraphale tried to instill lessons of patience and empathy towards others in the child. These largely fell flat, but Warlock did manage to glean from Aziraphale’s morality stories that the sooner Nanny felt warmer, the sooner she might come out of her room, and the sooner she could have fun with Warlock.

That was how Crowley awoke from a lovely dream of sailing blissfully on the Mediterranean to a six-year-old bouncing on his chest, armed with hot water bottles, a heated blanket, more teddy bears than his arms could really hold, and Aziraphale hovering in the doorway with a tray of cocoa and a fond expression on his face.

“We’re making you warmer!” Warlock announced, practically flinging a plush animal into the demon’s face.

Crowley put on a long-suffering smile (which might have held just a LITTLE affection in it) as he scooted over and allowed Warlock to clamber into bed with him. 

The boy took his time layering them with toys and blankets, explaining in great detail about his action as he went. “Are you better now?” he demanded.

“The cold gets to me, Ducky,” Crowley replied kindly. “Gets into my old bones.”

“Brother Francis said it was your blood.”

“Same difference.”

“I want cocoa now!”

Aziraphale required somewhat better manners before he relinquished a cup to the boy. From Crowley, his encouragement for ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ only yielded a grunt of ‘gimmee’ and a challenging glitter from the demon’s eyes which he elected not to meet.

Warlock slurped noisily at his cocoa, oblivious to the adults as Aziraphale seated himself gingerly on the edge of the bed (not at all certain he should do so in a lady’s room. There was classic decorum to uphold) and enquired politely about Crowley’s health.

The grumbled (and probably inappropriate for a child’s ears) answer was drowned out by Warlock.

“Tell me a story, Nanny!”

Crowley looked disgruntled. “You don’t invade my room and my bed and demand I entertain you.”

“Why not?”

“What if I tell you a story?” Aziraphale suggested hastily.

Warlock looked suspicious. “Yours are always about the good boy who cleaned his room and did all his chores and lived happily ever after. I hate those stories.”

“What kinds of stories do you like.”

Warlock sat up eagerly, sloshing cocoa… which didn’t quite leave the mug. “Nanny told me about this king who took over the whole world! And he killed all the other kings and put their heads on spikes and big birds ate all their eyeballs and the ground was sloshy ‘cause of all the blood…”

“Never mind, Ducky,” Crowley said quickly. “Brother Francis doesn’t know those kinds of stories.”

Aziraphale drew himself up, affronted. “Really, my dear. I’ve read Shakespeare. And Homer. And I’ve lived through more battles than…”

“So tell us something interesting,” Crowley interrupted. He slung an arm around Warlock and hugged him securely to his side. “We’ll be the judge of whether or not it’s an interesting story.”

“Yeah!” Warlock nodded confidently. “And if it’s not, we’ll chop off his head.”

Aziraphale spared a second’s worry for the apparently bloodthirsty nature of the infant antichrist. But there were years to come and plenty of time for him to bring out the boy’s better nature. 

For now there was a story to invent. “Once upon a time,” he began slowly to give himself time to think, “there was a…”

His eyes flitted frantically around the room. There was little to attract his attention save Crowley’s frilled dressing gown and assortment of severe lady’s hats.

“…princess,” he finished awkwardly.

Warlock wrinkled his nose in disapproval for the uninspired beginning.

“The princess lived at the top of a tower.” Aziraphale continued to look desperately for inspiration. “Made of snow,” he added, his eyes on the window.

“What’s the insurance like on a place that only lasts the winter?” Crowley grunted sarcastically.

Warlock looked up at him mystified.

“It didn’t only last the winter,” Aziraphale said loftily. “It was magic snow. It never melted.”

“Did dogs pee on it?” Warlock demanded.

“Warlock!” Aziraphale admonished. 

“Forget dogs,” Crowley replied. “Imagine pigeons landing on it and crashing through the roof. The princess is trying to sleep and little frozen birds pepper down on her head.”

Aziraphale reminded himself that he was an angel and possessing of infinite patience. Or at least more than the infernal fiend trying to defeat his temper. “It was a properly sturdy structure,” he insisted. “The builders followed all the proper zoning laws for constructing magical snow structures. There were no birds falling through the roof. And no dog would dare… discolor the snow because… because they would freeze before they got close!”

“Did the princess freeze?” Warlock wanted to know. 

“No. She had lots of electric blankets and space heaters and hot water bottles to keep perfectly warm.”

“How’d she plug them in?” Warlock asked. 

Aziraphale wondered if Shakespeare had had this much difficulty with actors questioning the logic of his story. “It was a magic castle-”

“Tower.”

“-tower. Of course the electricity worked. Very efficient builders in the magical worlds.” Aziraphale hurried on before his audience could further object to the mechanics of the story. “The princess was very unhappy because she hated the cold.”

“Why didn’t she move somewhere else?”

“She couldn’t. She was locked in the tower.”

“Why?”

“Because she worked for a very evil corporation.”

Crowley snickered.

Warlock, having spent his six years of life being dragged to enough dinner parties and factory tours to have his own ideas of about ‘corporations’, considered this seriously. “Did they have stormtroopers? And evil robots?”

“Yes.”

“And orcs?”

“Yes. Anyway…”

“And a guard dragon?”

Crowley objected to this. “No dragon is going to sit out in the cold guarding a tower all day.”

“Maybe it goes inside sometimes,” Warlock suggested. “And the princess puts blankets on it.”

“Must be a pretty big tower to fit a whole dragon in it.”

Warlock turned to Aziraphale. “Is it a big tower? Big enough for the dragon?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said quickly. “So the princess…”

“What did the dragon eat?”

“I don’t think that matters…”

“It does if you don’t want the dragon eating the princess,” Crowley countered.

“I never said there was a dragon!” Aziraphale felt his temper beginning to fray and reminded himself that he was a Heavenly warrior who could rise above mild annoyances like an audience which wouldn’t stop participating.

“There has to be a dragon!” Warlock shouted, his mouth set in a determined line.

Aziraphale threw up his hands. “Alright. There’s a dragon. It guards the tower and goes inside to visit the princess. She makes it scones. Dragons are very fond of scones, you know.”

“If the dragon can get in and out of the tower,” Crowley said with an innocent grin, “couldn’t the princess leave by that door?”

“No, she cannot. There’s a dragon in the way.”

“She feeds the dragon, but it won’t let her leave?”

“They have a very complicated relationship!”

Crowley leaned back, looking smug. 

“ _May_ I continue?” Aziraphale asked icily. 

Warlock, now busy fishing marshmallows out of his cocoa, nodded absently.

Aziraphale wracked his brain, trying to light upon the proper fairy tropes for this maddening tale. “One day a handsome and brave knight rode up on a mighty steed. He was there to rescue the princess.”

“Why?” Warlock asked.

“Because she couldn’t leave herself.”

“Why not?” the boy demanded.

Aziraphale scowled. “How would you have escaped?”

Warlock didn’t hesitate. “I’d make a flying carpet and fly away.”

“She did not have those skills.”

“Why not?”

“She could tunnel out,” Crowley volunteered. “Dig through one of the snow walls.”

“She could feed scones to birds and tie them together and fly away!” Warlock insisted, clearly stuck on one theme.

Crowley, his eyes gleaming, looked more prepared to suggest anything remotely possible. “She could disguise herself as whoever delivers the baking supplies and leave that way. Or set a fire and melt the tower. Or…”

“Make friends with the dragon!” Warlock declared. He looked abruptly decisive. “Make her make friends with the dragon.”

“That isn’t how the story goes,” Aziraphale protested helplessly. “Knights are always coming along to rescue princesses and slay dragons.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Aziraphale floundered.

Crowley nodded approvingly. “Rude of the knight, you know. Showing up uninvited. Threatening to slay and endangered species. Hauling some woman out of her home without asking nicely. No, I think that’s the right idea. The dragon should eat the knight.”

“No!” Aziraphale protested. 

He’d rather been liking the image of the knight he’d formulated in his head. A blond knight with a flaming sword – perhaps just a touch overweight, but these things happened. There to rescue a princess with lovely yellow eyes…

“Yeah!” Warlock interrupted his thoughts with bloodthirsty glee. “The knight comes up to the dragon and shouts mean things at him. And the dragon tears him apart and throws his head at all the other knights.”

“What other knights?”

“ALL the other knights,” the boy said decidedly. “Anytime more come to bother ‘em, the dragon throws the head at ‘em and they all run away scared.”

Crowley nodded approvingly. “And the rest of the time, the dragon gets to eat scones with the princess, and listen to her read him book – she really likes books – and sometimes they go off to a nice French restaurant together…”

Aziraphale found himself softening a little to this ending.

Warlock… was not. “No! They have to go fight the bad people who locked them up in a tower.” 

He rambled on for quite a while, detailing gleeful battles involving a surprising quantity of starships and giant robots.

Aziraphale wondered uneasily about the child’s mortal soul. 

He’d barely noticed that the voice had tapered off until he felt the bed shift and looked to find Crowley carefully picking up the now-sleeping child.

The gardener followed the nanny to Warlock’s bedroom, smiling softly in the doorway as Crowley tucked the boy into his own bed, then tip-toed from the room.

“So, how did the story really go?” Crowley asked as he carefully shut the bedroom door.

“Oh… that is… I rather think you’re right about the dragon. He and the princess seem like… a good match on the whole. Don’t you think?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Trapped in a tower together? Stuck working jobs they’re not fond of?”

“Well… perhaps there’s a sequel to the story. One where they say… pish-posh to their respective bosses and hurry off to greener pastures.”

“Pish-posh?”

“Don’t people say that anymore?”

“No one ever said that.”

Aziraphale felt his spirits sink. “It’s rather hard to keep up with the ‘neato’ phrasing of the time period.”

Crowley looked as though he was trying not to laugh. “Yes, Angel. That’s exactly true.” He slipped a hand into Aziraphale’s. “Come on. If you can’t be the knight-errant, at least you can try and keep the dragon warm while they’re stuck in the tower.”


End file.
